I wrote this poem in an attempt to describe the power of dreams and of the terrible torments we can put ourselves through. Dreams can reveal much about ourselves, if only we are able to train ourselves to remember them and to interpret the images and hidden messages that they contain. I firmly believe that dreams are a way for the subconscious to process trauma, stress or perplexing issues that the conscious mind has been stewing on or suffering from.
Over the years, I have honed my skills in being able to recall dreams once I am awake. I have also done much work to develop my ability to do what is called 'lucid dreaming', wherein I am aware that I am dreaming, and have at least some limited ability to control the direction of the dream. Often, if I am dissatisfied with the direction that the dream has taken, I am able to replay a section of it to try and explore other aspects or 'change the ending' as it were.
My dreams can be very vivid, graphic, violent and disturbing, or they can be peaceful and filled with joyful bliss. When I am troubled, or when I am in a mixed episode or my hypomania is way too high, the dreams can be impossible to control, and very troubling fo rme, but I try to take the good with the bad, and interpret what I can from my subconscious. Often, it is wiser than I am, and reveals things that I would not otherwise be able to see unassisted.
Dreamweaver
The demons had their way with me last night,
Ichorous talons rending at my heart and soul.
Dreams, the doorway to the id,
Played across the silver screen of my inner eye,
And I, the helpless spectator,
The trapped and tormented watcher,
Was forced to look on and to feel the horrors that lie within.
I did not even have the cold comfort of Beethoven’s ninth
To accompany my journey into the depths of my psyche.
Screaming without sound,
Trying with all of my might to close the eye that cannot close,
Turning away in a hall of mirrors without end,
Always focusing on the turbid tendrils of terror,
I at last faced the cold and brutal truth that no lies can hide.
I, a pitifully weak Virgil, faced my own hell,
So much more profound and real than Dante’s wildest imaginings.
All stark and in my face, my weakness, my faults, my flaws,
Gathered around me to throw me around in a circle,
Sneering, hating, teasing, tormenting, violating, ripping me to shreds.
I could not escape.
There was no rope, no helping hand, no lighted tunnel,
No omniscient God-figure, no guide, no love nor hope.
Waking in a cold sweat, eyes wide and fearful,
Looking for phantasmagoria in the shadows of my room,
I calmed my turbulent mind, my wounded soul, my beating heart,
And turned my waking eyes to the flayed and splayed
Mess that is me.
What had the demons shown me?
The Truth,
With all lies stripped away,
Especially the ones we tell ourselves
In the dark recesses of our mind,
That we repeat so many times
We do not dare or care to question them.
I am a weak and flawed creature,
Full of false pride, full of myself;
Hurtful and hurting, I have lashed out in pain,
And shared my hurt with the world;
When actions should have spoken so much louder than words,
I chose to remain silent, mute,
Ensnared in a trap of my own making,
Hurting those I love (including myself);
Ignoble beast, I bite the hand that feeds me,
I gave in to the darkness, the hunger, and hate myself for it;
I am emptiness, I am void, I am null,
The nullerman with a gaping hole where his heart should be,
Playing at being human, pretending to be whole;
I weave my own fate,
And hang from the threads, a limp and useless lump;
Damnation, salvation, flip sides of the same coin,
Minted in my mind, deposited in a bank
Where no interest is paid.
I face this Truth,
And facing it,
I dream on,
And try to change
The broken empty thing that is me.
